Intimacy (18)

AS WITH all films which gain notoriety for the content of single scenes, Intimacy's
much-publicised treatment of sex has elevated it into the public eye way before
its release.

Though the sex will overshadow the story, perhaps a little unfairly, the
act itself has certainly never been portrayed in quite such an unelegant,
mundane and, well, unsexy, light as here.

Always a subject which gets the critical pens scribbling furiously, sex in
the movies has previously been something of a curious affair: always glamorous
and keen to present perfect characters with well-formed bodies romantically
doing what the heart desires, and to hell with the rest.

But in reality it is never as simple as movies would profess, and just as
David Lynch has spent a career peeling paint off the perfect picket fences
of Smalltown America to reveal something altogether more ugly; Patrice Chereau
delves into the murky depths of the human mind to paint a bleak picture of
a society driven by need, for both desire and survival.

Why Jay (Mark Rylance) and Clare (Kerry Fox) meet every Wednesday for simplistic
no-questions-asked sex, is never made clear. Instead the focus is on the act
itself: raw, ruthless, almost animalistic as the pair circle each other and
pounce, to the rythm of their breathing, to satisfy their basic physical desire.

There is no emotion involved, just satisfaction. Going against all that has
been drip fed us before, sex is stripped of its sugar coated exterior and
reduced to an ugly, needy business, fraught with flesh and fumbling and less
to do with love and instead portrayed as a ritualistic, though recreational,
chore.

Hollywood would also have us believe that from here we see the woman take
on an obsessive manic demeanour as she sets about ruining her suitor's otherwise
perfect life.

But with Hanif Kureishi (author of the superb Buddha of Suburbia) nothing
is that simple. It's Jay who succumbs to curiosity and follows Clare into
her world, breaking the invisible boundaries they have observed so far, and
with predictably catastrophic consequences.

No doubt Fox earned her Best Actress at the Berlin Film Festival, but it
is Rylance and Timothy Spall (as her downtrodden husband) who shine. Their
verbal sparring, disguised as blokes down the pub chatting over pool, does
much to reflect the central theme that the best communication is done, not
through spoken word, but in the subtle nuances we emit subconsciously.

This really is no easy ride and though an intense, fascinating study of human
behaviour when faced with emotional turmoil, it's also frustratingly contrived
and loses its way slightly with what it's trying to say.

Chereau's direction is sporadic too, and although it never fails to hold
the attention has a tendency to get bogged down with frivolous details. The
use of settings and colour filters, though, lends another dimension, which
works well at holding the narrative together.

Hard as it may be to stomach, it strives to represent a brave and bold unspoken
truth about the underlying emotions buried in us all - which has to be applauded.
Bleak, surreal, yet utterly engrossing and absorbing throughout.